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THROUGH THE KALAHARI DESERT.

CHAPTER I

By rail from Cape Town —Over the hills—Drought in the Great Karroo—No rain for three years—An ostrich farm—A well- built railway—The Orange River terminus—Close packing— Crossing the Orange River—Team-driving in South Africa— “Det es nie hotel nie”—Froude’s “Honest Boer”—An oasis—Disappointing “mine host”—Fording the Mud River—Tin- can houses—”Tin Town,” alias Kimberley.

The evening of Friday the 2nd June, 1885, found a crowd of people, travellers with heaps of friends to see them off, and the usual proportion of idlers flattering themselves that they were making good use of their time doing nothing, and of curious onlookers interested in everybody else’s business because they had none of their own to attend to, on the platform of the Cape Town Railway Station. The “mail express,” destined to carry inland the letters from home that had arrived on the previous evening, was about to start, and there was the inevitable excitement which the departure of a favourite train always creates. Among the pas- sengers were Dr. Sauer, Mr. Caldecott, Lulu, and my- self, bound for Hope Town, then the nearest station to Kimberley, but now united by rail with that city of diamonds. When I heard that there was a Pullman

B

A South African Sleeping-Car.

sleeping-car attached to the train, I felt myself at home again, and tried to imagine that the crowd of Malays were only negroes, and to ignore the Semitic features of the majority of the loafers on the platform. But on closer acquaintance the “Pullman” bore quite as distant a resemblance to the sleeping-car of the American railroads as the yellow skins of the Malay boys did to the ebony face of Sambo. On one side of the gangway was a row of seats for one person, and on the other side a row of wider seats to hold two. Over each of these latter the attendant—or “steward” as he is called—suspended from the roof of the car a piece of canvas, on which he placed a thin, dirty mattress; and this constituted the “bed.’’’ There was no covering whatever; and as I had stowed all my rugs away in the luggage-van, there was no alternative but to “turn in all standing;” for by this time the train was some miles out of Cape Town. However, I managed to sleep pretty soundly in my novel hammock till the train slackened speed as it approached the summit of the Hexe Mountains, near the Hexe River. Having heard much of the beauty of the scenery here- abouts, I “turned out” to look at it, but was dis- appointed to see nothing but a series of rugged mountain spurs. Although it was bright moonlight, no details were visible. By this time, at such a height above the sea-level, it was getting very cold, and the rugs would have been welcome; but when the day dawned we were well down on the other side of the mountains, and rapidly advancing into the Great Karroo, and then we began to feel what it is like when the sun tries to make up for lost time. The heat was intense; the eye became tired of the perpetual trem-

A Terrible Drought.

bling appearance which every object assumed in the parched air; and it seemed impossible to keep cool even when standing on the platform at the end of the cars in the rush of air caused by the motion of the train. Not a cloud in the sky: the very atmosphere was parched and kiln-dried, causing a peculiar mirage which made distant hills look near, and magnified them to twice their size; and yet so intensely clear was the atmosphere that the smallest object stood out in sharply-defined detail. Hotter and still hotter it became as the sun rose higher: and beneath such a brazen sky as this the people had existed for the last two years Not a drop of rain for four and twenty months! As far as the eye could reach nothing but a weary expanse of parched-up clay, the monotony broken only by a few stunted, leafless bushes, and by a succession of stony, flat-topped hills (or koppjes) from fifty to one hundred feet high.

Such was the Karroo, when I saw it first, after a two years’ drought: the most terrible, arid, parched- up, kiln-dried, scorched, baked, burnt, and God-forsaken district the sun ever streamed down upon: not even excepting the Sahara; for there is nothing but sand, no object to serve as a foil to the solitude; while here the sense of desolation is intensified by seeing here and there a farmer’s hut. What! farmers in this country? Yes, three years ago these huts, miles apart as they are, and standing out in gaunt desolation, were surrounded by numberless flocks and herds; their in- mates, now beggars, were then owners of ten or twenty thousand sheep apiece. And still they look forward to the advent, too long deferred, of the refreshing rains, which in a few days—hours almost—will transform this

B 2

Rivers of Rock.

desert into a smiling expanse of rich pasture-land. I cannot, of course, decline to believe what I am told on the best possible authority; but it seems incredible that the Great Karroo can ever be other than it is now —an apparently hopeless desert. Not a blade of grass, not a leaf, visible; not even the beasts of the desert, the klip-bok (rock buck), or stein-bok (stone buck), which make their homes among the flat-topped koppjes, are to be seen: the only living creatures are here and there huge heavy-winged aasvogels, or vultures, making riot among the carcases of the horses and oxen that fairly strew the tracks used by the transport-drivers.

Now and then the railway crosses a deep ravine or a wide gorge, which, in the rainy season, would be filled with water. Splendid rivers, many of them, but now as innocent of water as of whisky.

Suddenly the train stopped close to a broad channel, which once was known as the Gramka River, but the bed of which is now heated rock. The station-master said one of the wells had run dry, and the other showed signs of giving out, while the water in the large dam would not last more than a fortnight longer. A glass of water at the refreshment-rooms cost 3d. It was hardly surprising therefore that a drink “of spirits should cost 1s., and a bottle of beer 3s. 6d. The proprietor of the restaurant, a fat brown Boer, said all his sheep were dead, and he had not a cow or an ox left: yet he still hoped for better times, and he was a fair specimen of the general run of the in- habitants. Sometimes a Boer farmer¹ would come to

¹ The word Boer really means “ farmer,” but has come to be regarded as synonymous with an Africander, i.e. a person of Dutch descent born in Africa.

A Place where it Never Rains.

the station, with an anxious, wistful look on his face, which seemed to say lie wished he could go away with us and leave his “farm” to itself; but in answer to questions there was always the same forlorn hope that the rain would fall some day; the same assurance that when it did fall it would bring better times. It is a common opinion that the colony will never do much good as long as the Boer element predominates; but I could not help thinking that if it were not for them the Karroo, at any rate in its present state, would be uninhabited, for no Englishman, could live on hope, while his hands were idle at his side. He would at least attempt to store up, against a dry day, some of the superfluous moisture of the wet seasons.

As a sort of set-off, I suppose, to this parched-up condition of the Karroo, I was told that in Calvinia and Fraserburg there had been no rain for three years.

“Oh, that is nothing,” interposed a well-informed man who knew South Africa. Up in Namaqualand no rain has been known to fall for twelve years, and the natives are reported to have devoured their children in the madness of thirst and starvation; while in Great Namaqualand there is a district where rain has never fallen.”

“Ah! I felt sure, all the time, that Hell could not be a great way off this place,” was all the answer I could give; “and as for those who are obliged to spend their lives here, they need have no fear of a future punishment.”

Leaving Beaufort West, we got among the mountains again, and left the Karroo behind us; the first evidence of that fact being seen in the occasional occurrence of a giant cactus, still green, in spite of old Sol’s rays,

Stupid Birds.

and in the increased height of the bushes which grew here and there. Shortly after passing Victoria West, a station some distance from the town of that name, we came to an ostrich-farm, situated on a small plateau. In front of the house was a small garden, in which grew a few stunted castor-bean plants, irrigated by water from the tank which fed the railway engine. I counted about thirty black male ostriches and as many grey-coloured females, some of which had six or eight chicks beside them. The whole paddock was surrounded by a low fence of wire and brushwood, not more than two feet high, but high enough to enclose these ‘‘stupid” birds, which do not seem to have enough sense to attempt—or, from the breeder’s point of view, are so sensible as not to attempt—to lift their long legs over this mimic hedge and be off.

These ostriches were the only living creatures, save the vultures, we had seen in a journey of 400 miles. This little irrigation tank was the only attempt to store surplus water in the same distance, and that, apparently, was due more to the necessities of the railway than to the enterprise of the ostrich-farmer. Indeed, the only good thing I saw on the whole journey to Hope Town—600 miles—was the railway. Well built and ballasted, and kept in thoroughly good order, it ‘‘rode” easily, and admitted of a good rate of speed being kept up. The whole distance was traversed in thirty-two hours, including stoppages— not at all a bad pace, considering the gradients in many cases were as much as one in forty.

About 10 p.m. we arrived at a station called De Aar, the junction with the Port Elizabeth line. Here we had to change, and bundling our things out on the

A Tight Fit.

platform in the dark, had an hour to wait for the train from Middleburg to convey ns to the north.

Travelling all night, we arrived at Hope Town—or rather the Orange River Terminus,” about nine miles from the river and the same from Hope Town—at 4 a.m., and here we had to exchange the railway for the coach to Kimberley, a distance of seventy miles. The mail-cart was sent off without delay, passengers having their choice of two regular coaches, one “run” by the mail contractors, Messrs. Gibson, and the other by the old South African pioneer, Mr. De Witt. The ordinary fare for the distance is 2l. 10s. for each passenger, and 4d. per lb. for all baggage over 25 lbs.

Mr. Caldecott had his own trap waiting for him, and was off next. The two coaches were soon filled to overflowing, so some of us went shares in hiring a special mule-waggon, which Mr. De Witt offered to “conduct” himself. There was just room for eight of us, and we were congratulating ourselves on getting a conveyance “made to order,” when two ladies begged to be allowed to join. Of course we could not refuse, and had all got nicely packed together when a young lady—Miss Pullinger, the daughter of the principal owner of the Dutoitspan Diamond Mine, and her little sister and brother—came up in great haste, having received an urgent telegram to go to Kim- berley at once. There was no other conveyance; would we make room just for three little ones? Mr. De Witt made no objection on behalf of the mules, so we made none on behalf of ourselves; and with a little judicious squeezing we packed ourselves in somehow.

The banks of the river are so steep that great care has to be exercised in driving down; if anything goes

Crossing the Orange River.

wrong with the break, there is nothing to prevent you going straight into the water. So on reaching the edge we dismounted, while the coach was driven down to the pont (Anglice, ferry, or floating bridge)—a flat-bottomed scow, attached by a pulley-block to a wire stretched tightly across the river. When we were “all aboard,” the bow of the scow was turned a little up-stream, and the force of the current took us across to the opposite shore—or rather to the edge of a sandbank about fifty feet wide, over which the male passengers were carried on the shoulders of a stalwart Zulu, while the ladies had the privilege of resuming their seats in the coach.

After the succession of waterless river-beds, the sight of the noble Orange River was quite a treat. The stream was only half-full, but the wide shelving banks of deep white sand, through which the mules laboriously dragged the coach, showed what a grand volume of water must roll down during the rainy season.

Slaking our thirst with ginger-beer—bought in a little shanty of corrugated iron, the inside temperature of which was that of an oven just ready for the bread to be put in—we resumed our seats on the coach, and the “slasher began his work. It takes two coachmen to drive a team in South Africa, one man holding the reins, and another using the whip—a stout cane with a hide lash, some six yards or more in length, more like a clumsy fishing-rod-and-line than a whip. Out of the whole team only the leaders and wheelers are under the direct control of the driver, the reins being merely passed through a loop in the harness of the intervening pairs; but the driver’s efforts are quite

Taking French Leave.

surpassed by those of the slasher, who, taking his weapon of torture in both hands, rends the air with his shouts and with the swishes and cracks and snaps of his whip.

After some hours of this ear-splitting performance we outspanned opposite a Boer’s house—a structure of sun-dried mud-bricks, somewhat similar to the houses I had seen in Mexico, where they are called adobes. It was a relief to be able to get down and stretch one’s legs, after being packed thirteen—not counting the drivers—in a waggon constructed for eight. On attempting to alight I found my legs so inextricably mixed up with Miss Pullinger’s that I hardly knew whether to jump down on hers or on my own; but everybody took the squeezing in good part, Miss Pullinger especially exciting our admiration by the plucky manner in which she bore the discomfort, holding, as she did, her two little charges on her lap all the time, but never complaining, and declining every offer of relief with a pleasant smile. It seemed a shame that such a treasure should have her lot cast in this country, instead of enjoying the comforts of England.

Knocking at the door, through which we could see the family at dinner, with a minister occupying the seat of honour, and finding the table was well filled, I asked in my bad Dutch if we could have dinner.

“Nein,” replied the farmer; “det es nie hotel nie.” But I was particularly hungry, so I walked in and shook hands all round, which I was told was the proper thing to do, and called the old Boer and his wife “uncle*’ and “aunt,” and the younger ones “nephews” and “nieces.” Then spying a pail of milk with a dipper in it I took a dong drink, and asked,

An Oasis.

“How much?” One of the girls answered, Six- pence.” So I called the others in, and the pail was soon empty; and then, shaking hands and laying our sixpences on the table, we filed out and took our de- parture. I don’t think the old Boer quite liked it, because we were English ‘P but, if we were glad to get his milk, he was glad enough to receive our coins. And he was not particular about the manner in which these latter got into his possession; for, unless I do the worthy man great injustice, he was the richer by a good many more sixpences than we had bargained for, for we had not gone more than half a mile on our journey when Miss Pullinger discovered that her purse was gone. She was certain she had it when she paid her sixpence, and she must have dropped it at the house. So we all voted that De Witt should walk back after it, which he at once agreed to do. But his mid-day march through the burning sand—with the thermometer at 140^o—was in vain. The purse was nowhere to be found, and the unanimous verdict was that Froude’s honest Boer” had annexed it.

About 1 p.m. we arrived at Thomas’s Farm, where we found dinner awaiting us, the coach ahead of us having happily given warning of our approach. The farm was quite an oasis in the desert. A large dam, fed by a spring, was used to irrigate a garden of about a quarter of an acre, the outer boundary of which was a thicket of fig -trees laden with fruit, with an inner fence of grape-vines from which hung luscious bunches. There were, besides, peach-trees, the fruit of which was however insipid, a plentiful stock of well-flavoured melons, and various vegetables, specimens of which graced our dinner-table.

The Benefits of Water Storage.

What astonished me more than anything else was the fact that the goats and cattle drinking at the dam were actually fat; not like the transparent, kiln-dried, living skeletons that had appeared here and there like ghosts amid the desolation of the country round about. No grass, no leaves on the stunted bushes, how could they lay up those stores of flesh and fat? Mr. Thomas explained that he had 300 horses, 200 goats, 500 cattle, and 5000 sheep, and that it required all his extensive range of 40,000 acres to keep them in condition during the drought. Even then, although they had water every day by means of his irrigation system, some of them had died; but not many more than he lost every year from “lung-sickness,” and the disease known as “stiff-sickness.” His water supply was the salvation of his stock.

Leaving this oasis, we were soon passing through the same monotony of a parched-up landscape. At one spot, going down a slight slope, at the foot of which there was probably a little moisture, we saw half a dozen of the graceful and gorgeously plumaged large crested crane; and presently old Kert espied a stein-bok, and got quite excited because his rifle was packed up in the bottom of the waggon, and he could not shoot it.

Our mules were getting tired, and were gradually slackening speed, notwithstanding the blandishments of the whip. But yet, towards evening, we overtook Mr. Caldecott’s turn-out and the coaches, both of which had outspanned for a change of ‘‘horses.” We followed their example; but for the worse: for we had given to us the mules that had been left by the down-waggon, and had already done thirty miles that day. So after an

A Hard Bed.

hour’s jog-trot, we stopped at a little winkel, or country shop, where we put up for the night. The accommo- dation was not of the first class. First of all we had a difficulty with the landlord, who had been overjoyed to find an extra party of fifteen alight at his door, and had prepared supper accordingly, but whose pleasant manner gave way to an outburst of angry expostula- tions when only Lulu and myself put in an appearance at table. But this did not spoil our appetites, and we did justice to the fare. The spring-bok was especially good. It was the first time I had tasted this, the venison” of the country, and I came to the conclu- sion that it was the best meat I had eaten.

Meanwhile, everybody else had seized the oppor- tunity of snatching a few hours’ sleep; for we were to start again just before midnight. It still wanted a couple of hours before then, so Lulu and I extem- porized a couch out of some sacks of wool that lay in front of the shop, expecting the drivers to call us when they inspanned. But when I next opened my eyes it was daylight. I had been dreaming, and awoke with a start, wondering where on earth I was. A glance around soon reassured me. There, on a sheet (save the mark!) of corrugated iron, lay Miss Pullinger, with her little sister and brother snuggled close to her, fast asleep. Close by, on the ground, were scattered the rest of our party: all but the two remaining ladies who, trying to sleep in their seats in the waggon, had passed a night of alternate nods and starts, and were less refreshed than anybody. I managed to get a cup of coffee for the ladies and in less than twenty minutes we were once more packed in our sardine-box on wheels, and off on the next stage, to the junction of

First Come, First Served.

the Modder, or Mud River—a name it well deserved —with another stream whose name I forget, but which did not deserve a name at all, since it contained no water, and even its mud was dry.

Here we had breakfast, consisting of mutton, parched up like the country that grew it, and coffee as muddy as the river. Price, half a crown. To wash the breakfast down, some of us had a bottle of lager beer, for which 3s. 6d was charged, and the beer was voted cheaper than the breakfast.

Fording the river was a pretty easy task: the difficulty was not the water, but the stones, for the bed was a jumble of loose rocks, with here and there a pool of mud. Just below the ford is a handsome bridge, in course of construction by the Government; for a bridge is sorely needed when the river is full. At such times as many as 300 teams of oxen—some of them with twenty in each team—may be seen accumulated over the banks of the river, waiting for the water to subside.

Col. Schermbrücker told me that on one occasion he was about to cross the river at this place, with a number of other teams, when the water suddenly came down so heavily that they had to wait for it to subside, and before the flood was over there were about 200 teams collected on both sides. He was about ninetieth in order of crossing, and the rule of “first come first served” is always observed. Hoping to save time, he paid 101. for the right of crossing in place of team No. 10, but the river fell as suddenly as it rose, and by the time his turn came the river was fordable in several places, and No. 90 got across as quickly as he did!

Nearing Kimberley.

After leaving the junction, the next sign of life was at the farm called Blisset’s, where we saw a Kaffir driving some dozen or two young ostriches, accom- panied by their mother.

Here was the first symptom of our approach to Kim- berley, in the shape of the wire fencing with which the farm—some 60 square miles—was surrounded. Thick poles of thorn, of every imaginable shape and size, supported an equally varied assortment of hori- zontal wires, of all thicknesses—some pieces forming a solid rod of three-quarters of an inch in diameter —which had evidently seen service in the diamond- mines.

A few miles farther we outspanned to water the mules at a dam, which, the driver told us was said to bring the proprietor 2000l. a year—which I thought was a thousand times more than the whole country was worth.

An hour later we came in sight of a great embank- ment of green clay, which I took to be part of the works for the construction of the Kimberley railway, perched up so high, probably, to be out of the way of the floods.

“No,” the driver explained, that is the blue earth that has been brought out of the Bultfontein dia- mond-mines. We are now close to the Du Toit’s Pan. Yonder is the reservoir of the Kimberley water-works: the water is brought from the Vaal River, about fifteen miles away.”

Getting nearer to Kimberley the roads were strewn with empty tins, of all shapes and sizes: in some places such heaps of them that we could hardly pass. There were millions of these tins, the contents of which

Tin Houses.

had at one time formed the sole food of the miners. Here and there, out of the abundance of this waste mate- rial, some ingenious individual had utilized some of the larger cans, by spreading them out flat, joining them together, and, with the help of a sheet of corrugated iron, a gunny-bag or two, and a few pieces of hoop- iron, constructed most comical-looking huts, which formed the dwelling-places of the native labourers. After all it was quite appropriate, after applying the contents of the tins internally, to reserve the tins themselves for outward application.”

Through this street of tins we entered “Tin Town,” as Kimberley is popularly known, from the array of corrugated galvanized iron shanties which surround the market square. Here we arrived about 3 p.m., and put up at the Transvaal Hotel, where Mr. Con- stable, the courteous manager, specially informed us that the rooms allotted to us were those which Lady Florence Dixie had occupied. The sitting-rooms were built of mud, facing the street, with separate structures of galvanized iron at the back for bed=rooms, which felt like ovens, compared with which the mud-built apartments were deliciously cool. In this respect old Kert had the advantage of us; for, although it was against the rules for a black man to live anywhere but in the stable, I got leave for him to sleep on the floor of the sitting-room.

A bath, a good dinner, and a comfortable bed were unspeakable luxuries, after the discomfort of the long journey; and needless to say we made the most of each of them. Lulu was in especial need of a “wash and brush up,” for finding the interior of the wagon a trifle too crowded, he had performed the latter part

A Dusty Journey.

of the journey on the top among the luggage, and when he came down he was the picture of what Adam must have looked like in one of the earlier stages of his manufacture out of the dust of the earth.

CHAPTER II.

Laying in stock—The story of the first diamond—How the mine was discovered—Shady customers—Cheating the revenue—”Dia- mond cut diamond”—Welcoming the ladies—The I.D.B.”—Bubble companies—Evils of the detective system—Martyrs to civilization.

The next day was devoted to making preparations for our journey to the Kalahari. First I arranged to buy Mr. Caldecott’s waggon and team of six mules, and advertised for a shooting-horse; and then commenced to lay in a stock of powder and shot, pots and pans, kettles and coffee-pots, blankets and beads, pipes and tobacco, pails and water-barrels; and, most useful of all, water-bags: these last are a Cape institution, con- sisting simply of a stout linen bag, which is filled with water and hung in the sun to keep cool! The evaporation is so rapid that the contents keep nearly as cold as ice water: just the thing for America!

Everybody had some special recommendation to make of a particular article which was represented to be indispensable, and at first I was glad to profit by the experience of others. But at last Lulu pointed out that the capacity of a waggon was limited.

“Look at this room: it’s twice as large as any waggon, and it’s just chock full. You surely are not going to cart all Kimberley off to the Kalahari Desert!”

“That’s just what I do want to do, Lu; and not only

The First Diamond.

so, but I intend then to take Kimberley and the Kalahari per steamer to London. Just you bring your camera out, and ‘take the town/ and to-morrow we will go and get a look at the bowels of the earth, and you shall ‘take’ them too.”

I knew Lulu’s weakness for photographing anything, from the moon to a monkey, would soon make him forget all his troubles: and half an hour afterwards he had secured several “plates,” from one of which the accompanying view of Kimberley is taken.

Next day. Dr. Saner introduced us to Mr. Steib, the manager of the French Diamond Mining Company, who took us to the mining board, introduced us to the secretary and all the members, and procured for us a pass to go over any part of the mine and take photo- graphs of it.

I should, perhaps, here explain that what is called the “Kimberley Mine” is owned principally by three companies—the Central, the French, and the Standard —which have bought up nearly the whole of the small “claims” into which the mine was divided when the first rush” of diamond diggers took place thither in 1872.

The story of the first diamond having been picked up by a Boer on the banks of the Orange River, and of its having been a child’s plaything for years before its value was recognized, is well known. This led to further search being made, and numbers of stones were picked up in the sand and gravel of the banks and bed of the Orange, and afterwards of the Vaal River, where there are still many diggers working the alluvial deposits. Gradually, however, diamonds were found in dry gravel patches at some distance